Two days later, I still cannot get through. No one is home. I think, it can't end here. I must have learned something. Surely, in ordering things, a pattern appears. Surely, the arbitrary uncovers a private logic. There must be more. In Sweden, the range of the alphabet is 28 keys compared to
our rudimentary 26; it pulls out W but then it extends three letters beyond Z and ends on this note of pain: AA--AA--oo. What does it do them? Their suicide rate is the highest in the world.
Backta, yells my mother. All the world dissolves; I freeze in my tracks.
I have to speak to her.
I stop calling when it is clear that they are avoiding my call or gone; a week later, I try again.
A man picks up the phone.
Hello, who is this?
Ah, Jonathan? This is Uncle Max. Do you remember me? How are you
You want to talk to Hanna? Is that it? She's here you know. On a visit.
Yes. I want Hanna.
Wait a minute. I'll get her.
Is anything wrong? I ask.
No. She wants to see you as soon as possible. That's all.
Let me talk to her--
I didn't tell him, she says.
Your father did that to her, says Anna calmly, venomously.
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